hold on little flowerFlower, don't lose your petalsI know you're dying insideNow that winters come and the cold has setI see you withering awayThese days are growing shortOnly us humans would have them numberedAnd your petals, they fall like tearsAgainst this motionless backdrop of timeI wish I could make it betterThis snowy worldOf black and whiteOf muted sounds and miseryIts no wonder little floweryou're in such a hurry to leaveYou're the last one leftYou've held on so longSo long that you're now aloneAnd I feel for youBecause that's my songSo won't you hold on with me until Spring?
The Black Glove I sit across from her now, soaking in moment of silence between us, filled in by the familiar clatter of the underground and the murmer of the usual midday crowd. Bitterness, I could taste it as I bit my lip. Bitterness because I know somewhere in the back of my mind, that things are going nowhere. We're both grown now. She's no longer the girl I once spent many an afternoon with, running through the rain after school. Nor am I that long haired boy that once lived down the street. I catch her stare as I look up at her, and look away. I pull out that black glove. The one she gave me, on that sunny day we met in town. When she walked up to me and said "Always remember me. I'll have one, and you'll have the other." And so thats how it was. Her and I, two halves of a whole, or so it seemed for awhile anyway. It was if some perfect day had happened. Had graced the morbid expanse of earth on which